Potter in Baker Street
by esama
Summary: Harry is looking for a flat and Mrs. Hudson just happens to have a perfect one - it only needs a little work. Harry Potter x Sherlock, the BBC version not Victorian, crossover, slightly ooc intelligent!Harry
1. Chapter 1

Warnings; Somewhat ooc intelligent!Harry. Past Harry x Ginny, mentions of Ron x Hermione. Some spoilers.  
(edit; whoops, put wrong character in. Meant to be John W. not Harry W. Ignore that.)

**Potter in ****Baker Street**

Harry eyed the front of the house thoughtfully, clutching onto a wrinkled map of down town London. He tilted his head a bit to the side, trying to figure out what windows belonged to the 221 complex, and what didn't. It was hard to tell with buildings like this, where there was a shop next door and who knew what else on the side. Judging by the curtains though… at least one flat upstairs, and another on the first floor.

From here it didn't look bad - but the few apartments that were still open in this area all had something wrong with them. Either that, or they were too expensive for him to consider - and this one was definitely on the cheaper side of normal and little to the suspicious side. And after week of apartment hunting, he had started to notice these things somewhat well.

Pushing the map into his pocket, he eyed the front of the house for a moment longer. He had already started wondering if it was worth the trouble to try and find an apartment in London. He could've just as well gotten one from, well, anywhere in Britain, and it wouldn't have made much difference as far as trips to work went. He still would've probably Apparated or used the Floo. Problem was that being further away was, well, being further away and he had gotten used to living in London.

Giving the store next door another look, he shook his head. It was no use pondering about it here - he needed to go in and take a look and if it didn't turn out any better than the others, he'd move on, possibly to look for a place in the outer edges of the London area, where liveable places weren't so expensive.

Stepping closer to the door, rung the door bell and waited while eying the street. Wondering where he could keep the motorbike if he'd live here. It didn't look like there was much parking space anywhere near. Of course he could always cheat a bit… but cheating and showing off didn't really go well together, and after getting Sirius's old bike to working - and shining - condition, he deserved to show it off a bit.

The door opened before he found a parking spot, and elderly woman peered out. "Yes?" she asked. "You here for Sherlock? I'm afraid he's not here at the moment -"

The wizard hesitated, giving her a look. She was obviously comfortable where she was, wearing the type of clothing people only wore at home, to be comfy. She was probably the owner house. "Um, no, I'm here about the flat - there was an ad on the paper?" he asked, tugging the rolled up paper from the pocket of his coat and holding it up. "Basement level, with two rooms, bathroom and a kitchen?"

"Oh!" the woman said, and quickly opened the door. "You should've called in, dear; I would've known to expect you."

"Um, sorry. I had an accident with my phone the other day," Harry answered with a mild grimace. That was another mobile phone had gotten burned out after about a week of using it. "If this isn't a good time, I can come back later…"

"No, no, the time's good as any. Do come on," she said, stepping aside and smiling. "My name is Mary Hudson, by the way, I'm the landlady."

"Yes. Harry Potter, how do you do," Harry answered with a nod, and followed her inside. He gave the hallway a cursory glance. Open, not badly kept, even a little bit decorated - the wall papers were a bit old, but it added to the charm and it wasn't like a wizard like him needed the newest and shiniest in any case. If the flat looked about the same as the hallway, he might take it.

"I have two other tenants here - Sherlock and John who live in the three-room flat upstairs," she said and smiled somewhat sneakily. "They're always running about, the excitable things they are, but they're both good men. The flat is over here - oh, I need to get the keys. Give me a moment, dear."

Harry glanced after her and then up the stairs thoughtfully as she hurried away. Three room apartment upstairs, her own on the first floor and then the basement flat? All in all, it wasn't even half as big as Grimmauld place. So far it looked much nicer, though. And no screaming portraits, that was a plus.

"Alright, I've got the keys. This way," Mrs. Hudson said, nodding towards somewhat crowded hallway past the stairs. Harry followed her and then to the door which apparently led to the basement flat. He raised an eyebrow. It was locked with a padlock on top of the door's own tumbler lock.

"There's not been much use going downstairs much, so I've locked it nice and tight," Mrs. Hudson said with slightly embarrassed smile while opening the locks with firm efficiency. "If you take the flat, I imagine there won't be much use for the padlock," she added as she got the door open. "The stairwell will go with the apartment," she added, while flicking the light on and showing somewhat crowded and somewhat gloomy staircase leading down. "So if you wish to decorate that, you're free to do so."

"Alright," Harry murmured, glancing at the walls and reaching out to touch them. Cool, a bit damp, and the wallpaper was all but aware of that too, as she coughed softly and then led him down the stairs and to the second door which was also locked but this time without the padlock.

"And here you are then," the elderly woman said, pushing the door open to the basement flat and motioning Harry to go on ahead. "It's empty for a while now, so the wallpapers have gotten a bit wilted I'm afraid. I've been putting some money aside in case someone might get interested in the flat and think of doing some renovating, but with the place empty it hasn't seemed like there's much point to start myself, really. All it would do was needlessly bother the neighbours you see."

Harry gave Mrs. Hudson a slight glance and smiled. She wasn't much of a sales person with that pitch, he thought, but he didn't really mind. Of all the places he had been to so far, he already liked this place the most so far - if not for the state of things, then because the landlady was more pleasant. In the last cases it hadn't been much a pleasure to meet them.

"So, this is the sitting room," he said, stepping further into the room. It didn't look bad. The wall papers were a mess and there was only one window, but there was a fireplace, and the room wasn't too small.

"Yes. That's the door to the bedroom, and that's where the kitchen is," Mrs. Hudson said, pointing. "And there's the bathroom," she added and smiled. "You can go ahead and take a look."

Harry nodded, and did just that while she lingered in the sitting room. The bedroom was smaller but the window was about the same size as in the sitting room, so that was good. The kitchen had a smaller window, but the counter area was wide enough. There wasn't much space for a table, but it wasn't like a two-room-flat needed a dining table for eight in any case. The kitchen tiles were a bit of a mess - they were dark, cracked and the betweens of them were downright black. The bathroom was in about as good condition as the kitchen and the living room put together - and it smelled a bit.

It was easy to tell why the apartment was cheap - it was definitely not top notch. But the floor plan wasn't bad, and the kitchen was surprisingly big - and there was a fireplace, an honest to god fireplace and not one of those electric or gas things people tended to use these days. And there was an old fashioned bathtub in the bathroom, which was slightly bigger than the modern ones, and he definitely approved that - Hogwarts and Grimmauld place had spoiled him there.

"How much money did you put aside, exactly?" Harry asked, after venturing out of the bathroom.

"Some," Mrs. Hudson said, folding her hands and glancing aside. "I had the notion that I could share renovation costs."

"And after renovation, would the rent go up?" Harry asked, looking around again.

"If you did the renovation, of course not," she chuckled warmly. "But depending on the result, for the next tenant it might."

Harry smiled nodding and giving another look around the house. He had spent some four years fixing Grimmauld place up so he had some skills. All one needed to do here was replace the wall papers, maybe fix the kitchen and bathroom tiles and possibly also replace the toilet and the sink in the bathroom. It was nothing compared to Grimmauld place, where he had been forced to tear down walls and rip the floors up and completely redo the entire attic. Fixing this place would be piece of cake after that - something he could do on his free time, really.

"I think I'll take it," he decided. It was unlikely he'd find a better place with better offer in London, and he really had taken liking to the city life. "When can I start?"

The woman gave him a beaming smile. "Right now if you'd like," she said. "How about we go upstairs and I'll fix us a pot of tea and then we can go over the paper work and such - and you can tell me a little about yourself, hm?"

"Of course," Harry nodded. He would've thought less of her if she hadn't tried to sneak a peak of his background, though he would probably have to lie and cheat and bluff his way through the conversation. It wasn't like he could tell the truth in any case. Pot of tea sounded wonderful, though - it had been a cold day. "After you, ma'am."

x

"So, this is the place? Looks a bit common," Ron noted, as he stopped the car beside the door of 221b Baker Street. "Nothing like the Grimmauld place. I bet its right up your alley."

Harry snorted, freeing himself of the seat belt. "Thanks, mate," he said and pushed the door open. "After that place, I think I deserve a bit of commonness," he added, giving the street a look. Completely Muggle and completely mundane. Lovely.

"After living there for what, eleven years? I'd have gone mental by now, twice over," the redhead agreed, standing up from the car and throwing the door shut. "So, what are we taking there first? The bed?" he asked, glancing back to the trailer in the back of the car. "The table? Or the shelves?"

"Let's start with the bed, since it's going to back room," Harry answered. "Let' me pop in and give Mrs. Hudson a warning first. And mundane means only, I don't want my moving to end up as a Daily Prophet headline incident," he added, though he doubted that Auror of several years, even if that Auror was Ronald Weasley, would've forgotten.

"Yes, yes, I know. The chances are it's going to end up there anyway, though - Harry Potter moving out of such prestigious house to live with the muggles! Daily Prophet's gonna lap that right up," the other wizard snorted back. "Go on, I'll get started unwrapping this stuff," he added, waving a negligent hand at him and then turning to the trailer.

Shaking his head, Harry turned to the door and quickly fished the keys out of his pockets. "Mrs. Hudson?" he called after getting the door open. "Mrs. Hudson, it's Harry Potter - I'm here to bring some of my stuff in - hello," he said, noticing a man, who had been coming down the stairs from the second floor.

"Morning," the man answered, blinking. "Oh, you must be the bloke who's moving into the basement," he said, and then stepped down the final stairs, offering his hand. "John Watson - I live upstairs with Sherlock Holmes. Who is just a flatmate, by the way," he added quickly.

"Okay, then," Harry answered with somewhat bemused smile and accepted the hand. "Harry Potter," he introduced himself. "Is Mrs. Hudson here? I told her before that I'd be bringing my stuff in, but I'm not sure if it's alright to just go on ahead without her seeing - making sure I'm not bringing any bombs in or anything."

"After the things Sherlock's lugged in here, I doubt she'd much mind a bomb, so as long you didn't set it to go off inside the place," Watson said with mild smile. "I'm sure it's fine. Do you need a hand? I was going down the store, but I can spare the moment if you're a pair of hands short."

"No, it's fine - I got a mate helping me. Thanks," Harry nodded. "Is that, um. Sherlock here?" he added, glancing up the stairs. "Because moving can get noisy and I wouldn't want to bother anyone."

Watson's smile turned into more of a grimace now. "You don't need to mind him right now, he's… preoccupied with the telly and I doubt he'll hear anything over it. You sure you don't need a hand?"

"I'm sure, thanks," Harry assured and then glanced at the way where the stairs leading to his flat were. "I'll need to get started though, Ron's got night shift today so I need to get this done quick, so…"

"Yes, right. I'll just by on my way then," Watson said, and then stopped to smile Harry once more. "Welcome to Baker Street," he said.

"Thanks," Harry smiled back, and as the man turned to leave, he turned to open the doors to his basement flat, wondering if the other bloke upstairs was as friendly. If Ron hadn't been there he might as well have taken the guy's offer.

"I opened the doors," he said to Ron, after heading back up and propping the front door so that it wouldn't immediately swing shut again. "We can get started."

"Alright then," the redhead nodded. "Do you need my help unpacking or setting up this stuff too, once we've gotten it down?"

"No, I can handle that - and I won't unpack most of it, not with the renovation. Let's just get it all down there, and that'll be fine," Harry answered, and they did just that, staring with the bundle that contained the parts of Harry's bed. After few steps, Harry sent a slight frown at Ron, who pretended to not notice - the bundle had been put under a mild feather light charm.

"Don't look at me like that, I did it at the Grimmauld place. You can't tell me you didn't either - these things are heavy," the redhead finally said. "No one's going to notice, I promise."

"Uhhuh," Harry answered, shaking his head. Well, it made things easer - and he had used magic to pack things up, so, yeah. "Just let's get this over with," he said.

They managed to unload the stuff in what Harry suspected was record breaking speed, and after having finished bringing the boxes of clothing, kitchen utensils and other random stuff, they sat down to the only piece of furniture that hadn't been disassembled, the sofa-bed, to take a breather. Even with the feather light charms, going up ad down and up again a narrow little staircase was tiring.

"So, mate you really sure about this?" Ron asked, after moment of quiet. "This place? It's cosy, I'll grant you that, but it's really not the Grimmauld Place. And Ginny could just as well go back to the Burrow, they got the space for her."

"No, she can keep the place for now," Harry sighed, rubbing a hand over his neck. After a bad marriage and even worse divorce, she deserved the peace of living in her own home. Grimmauld place had never been much more than a place for Harry in any case - one of the reasons why he had never really stopped trying to fix it up was because he had never been satisfied with it. The place had been too big, too spacious, too dark and never felt like home.

Harry shook his head at the thought and then leaned it back and to rest against the top of the backrest. "I think I might end up selling the Grimmauld Placeafter she gets a place of her own," he mused. "Or maybe renting it out."

Ron gave him a look and then shrugged his shoulders. "If you're sure. It's a damn fine house though."

"Yeah, well, there's not much a point keeping a place that big when it's just me," Harry murmured, grimacing and running a hand over his hair. Even if he would get another woman to stick up with him long enough, there'd be little point when the Potter line would end with him. And it wasn't worth it try to play house with a woman when he didn't much like women in any case.

"You could always adopt," Ron mused. "Hermione's been telling you to do that for, what, five years now?"

"I could. Maybe one day I will," the dark haired wizard mused. He hadn't been able to with Ginny because to the bitter end she had thought little more trying would do the job. There was no fighting against a medical condition, though - and trying to adopt that time would've been just driving the knife deeper into already festering wound. Loveless, childless marriage and then a child from some strangers who had abandoned the poor kid? It might've saved some marriages, but not theirs.

"If you do, you're going to need that big house. So, probably better go with renting, rather than the other thing," the redhead said, and stood up again, stretching. "Do you need anything else? I promised the missus to visit the store before hopping off to work."

"Go. Give Hermione and the kids my love," Harry said with a smile and glanced around the apartment. "I'll start get to work here."

"Good luck with that, and remember, cheating's only wrong if someone catches you," the redhead grinned, before taking something from his pocket and tossing it at the shorter man. "Here. Early home warming preset, to get you going."

Harry caught the silver flask and gave it a look - and then a feel. Magically expanded, lightened and made impervious to most damage. Big enough from the inside to hold several gallons - filled with Frostbite liquor. "Thanks mate, just what I need, aching teeth on top of everything else," he said, pushing the flask into his pocket.

"You're not supposed to chug it down like it was butterbeer, Harry," Ron reminded him and then waved his hand. "I'll be off. Give us a call if you need something else. Hermione's got the land line working again."

"I'll keep it in mind, thanks," Harry nodded, and closed his eyes until heard the door closing and Ron making his way up the stairs. Some time after, he could hear a car, driving away. "Right," he murmured and opened his eyes, alone in his new apartment that seriously needed some new wallpapers.

At thirty years of age, he finally had a bachelor's pad. The thought made him smile for a moment, before the reality dawned in once more. He had walls to fix and kitchen to retile and bathroom to more or less completely upturn - and so many days left in his brief break from work. It was better to get started.

x

It only took couple of days to fix the wall papers in all of the rooms - and the stairwell - but the kitchen and the bathroom would take a little longer, especially since he needed an electrician's approval to do some of the things he wanted to do, and a plumber's approval for other things. Mrs. Hudson was a heaven's sent in both cases, as she had better idea on who to call and what papers to sign than Harry did. She also had her opinions about what wallpapers Harry put in and what tiles he used for the kitchen and bathroom, which he didn't dispute. It was, in the end, her house after all.

While working on the apartment, Harry met John Watson a couple of times. The man offered to help him with this and that and once Harry even took him up on the offer, which got the new toilet and sink delivered downstairs much quicker than he himself would've managed with no magic involved. Harry figured he might end up liking the man - there was sort of easy strength about the man which Harry very much approved, an old soldier's efficiency. Harry figured that once the remodelling was done, he might visit a pub or two with the guy.

He didn't know about Sherlock Holmes though - though not because he didn't know what to think of the man but more because he had yet to meet him. The way Mrs. Hudson spoke of him was a sort old befuddled warmth and the way John spoke of him was in was in tones of exasperation and admiration, and that told something, but only enough to make Harry curious. He firmly decided against prying, though - he did that enough at work to get him all the trouble he needed, he didn't want to start asking for it at home too.

It was in the end the day when his holiday ended and it was time for him to head to work, when Harry met elusive Mr. Sherlock Holmes. After spending almost a week mostly indoors, Harry had decided to take the trip to work with the bike instead, and as he headed up and out in his more bike-friendly clothing, with the helmet under his arm, he nearly ran into a dark haired man just coming inside.

"Oh, sorry," Harry said, quickly stepping aside to avoid disturbing the man who was carrying an armload of papers. The man was tall, almost as tall as Ron was, Harry noted. On the thinner side, but fit - possibly a runner, he added to himself, after quick glance over the man's clothing. Not a runner's shoes - but shoes that definitely had seen running.

"It's a crowded hall," the man said, giving him a cursory glance. "You must be Harry Potter, the new tenant," he then said and offered his gloved hand. "Sherlock Holmes."

"How do you do," Harry answered politely, gripping the hand. The man had an interesting grip - somehow tight and elegant at the same time. "I'm sorry, I'd love to chat a moment since we haven't gotten the chance yet, but I'll be late for work."

"Ah, of course," Holmes said, staring him intently without an expression on his face. "Police?" he asked.

"Hm?" Harry asked.

"Your work."

The wizard raised his eyebrows at that. Now where had the man pulled that from? "Security guard," he answered, using the lie he had given to Mrs. Hudson. "Excuse me," he added, freeing his hand from Holmes' grip and slipping past the man. He'd keep an eye out for the man in the future, he decided. Now, though, he needed to get to work.

"How's the repair work going?" Ron asked, after Harry had parked the bike and made his way to the elevator that led from the supposedly normal muggle parking hall down to the Ministry of Magic. The redhead held up a paper cup, and an Auror's red robe.

Harry nodded with thanks, and accepted the robe, pulling it over his muggle clothing before reaching for the cup. "Better than I thought," he answered after taking a sip of the one cup of coffee he drank every day at work, stepping into the elevator. There he leaned back against the wall while Ron punched in the Auror code to the security telephone's keypad, sending them down to the offices of Department of Magical Law Enforcement. "The kitchen and bathroom still needs some work, but I'm getting there. How was the week without me?"

"Disgustingly boring," Ron assured. "One robbery in Knockturn Alley, and couple cases of muggle baiting via cursed things, that's about it." There was a moment of quiet before the redhead glanced at the shorter wizard. "Mum was by a couple of times. Still trying to make me talk some sense to you."

"Ah, she was huh?" Harry sighed with a sad smile. Still waiting for some more grandkids, still hadn't given up on the possibility that a miracle cure for Harry's sterility could be discovered just around the corner. "I'm sorry to put you through all this, Ron. You and Hermione have been more than patient."

"What are mates for, hm?" Ron said, clapping his shoulder compassionately and the pushing the door open as they arrived at their floor. "You probably ought to check over the reports about the muggle baiting. I'm pretty sure we got it all right, but you know, everything looks a bit better with your mark on it."

"I'll take a look," Harry agreed, and as they stepped out of the hall and into the DMLE offices. There he spent good ten minutes telling everyone good morning, before heading to his office, where pile of folders waited for him, along with recently brewed pot of tea and plateful of biscuits.

"Um sir?" his secretary asked, popping his head into the office before Harry could even sit down. "The Minister just sent a word - he wants you in his office as soon as possible."

"Thanks, Dennis," Harry nodded and dropped his empty coffee cup to the trash bin. "Keep my tea warm for me, I bet I'll need it."

"Yes sir," the younger wizard nodded, moving to attend to the tea while Harry headed back out, wondering what Kingsley wanted this time. It wasn't like their Minister to call him in first thing in the morning.

Making his way to the Minister's office was quickly enough done, and after bidding Percy good morning, he stepped into the room unannounced, knowing that Kingsley would know it was him - he was after all, the only person who dared to enter the man's domain without knocking. He glanced over the room as he entered like he always did. Quickly checking for listening spells and such before closing the door. It had taken four years before the Unspeakables had stopped trying, but he wasn't about to get complacent.

"You wanted me, Kingsley?" he asked.

The dark skinned Minister looked up from his paperwork with a frown. "Good morning Harry," he said, leaning back and eyeing him thoughtfully. "How was holiday?"

"Full of plaster dust. I got a new apartment and am renovating," the younger wizard answered, raising an eyebrow. Usually Kingsley was the soul of efficiency with him, always straight to the point. Any form of pleasantries was practically stalling - it had to be important. "Has something happened that I should be aware of by now?" he asked, glancing around the room again for any indication of what was wrong and then noting the portrait that was the direct door to the Prime Minister's office. It wasn't quite open - but the magic usually locking it was loose.

"There is a muggle official of high standing who wants to meet you for reasons he did not deem important enough to share with me. Or too important," Kingsley said, frowning a little. "So maybe I should be the one asking what has happened. Have you gone off on your mad adventures lately, Harry?"

"Not since my divorce shindig, sorry," Harry answered, now eying the portrait thoughtfully. Muggle official of high standing. Couldn't be the Prime Minister, Kingsley would've said if it was. The other muggles who knew - in official capacity anyway - about magical world could be counted with one hand with fingers left over. Her Majesty, of course, Secretary of State for Defence, and…

"Well. This is interesting," Harry murmured. Whatever he had done to gain that attention, he wondered. "And he didn't say what he wants?"

"Irritatingly quiet about it, but he went through the Prime Minister just to talk to you, so it has to be something special," Kingsley said, shaking his head and frowning. "Go on. And be ready to report to me _thoroughly_ when you come back. I'm burning with curiosity."

"Alright. I'll have it in writing if I can," Harry smiled, shaking his head and wondering. It wasn't every day the muggle government bypassed the Minister of Magic like this. Even that particular official. "Hopefully I'll be right back. If I'm not, send a rescue party - or someone to retrieve my body, anyway."

"Try not to make it necessary," Kingsley scoffed at his poor attempt at humour. "I'd hate to replace one of my few dedicated department heads."

"Standing department head," Harry said and tipped an invisible hat at that, before marching to the portrait. He didn't bother hesitating before pulling it open and then shut behind him, stepping easily from one Ministry's office to another even though there were miles in between. As he did, he made a mental note not for the first time that they really needed more doors like that one - they could be useful, but for nearly hundred years this one had been the only one in the world.

The thought trailed away; as he glanced over the room he had arrived to. There was only one man there - one in impeccable muggle suit, whom he had met only twice before. Once, when breeding cycle of Aswhinders had gone badly wrong and seventy eight muggle houses had found themselves housing the fiery snakes in their fireplaces, and once when a mad witch had decided to practice a very flashy form of muggle baiting in Trafalgar square - in broad day light.

"Chief Potter," the man greeted him almost pleasantly, while rising to his feet and offering his hands. "What a pleasure to meet you again."

"I'm only the acting Chief, Sir, but it is good to meet you again," Harry answered with mild smile and shook the offered hand firmly. The man had been a heaven's sent in both of the cases Harry had been working on - and rather terrifying, controlling information and technology even better than some wizards controlled magic, making Harry's squad capable of cleaning after the disasters without a word having broken through. In the era of lightning fast information technologies, snapfire obliviates weren't quite enough anymore, after all.

That didn't make Harry entirely sure he liked the man - no man should have as much power as this one did, even if he wielded it with some semblance of… validation.

"What can I do for you, sir?" Harry asked.

"Well, that is the issue, isn't it? Please, sit down," the muggle man said, motioning one of the two chairs in front of the Prime Minister's desk. "You recently moved to live in muggle London, did you not - at 221b Baker Street, correct?"

Harry pressed his lips into a thin line. This was the reason Harry was more certain that he didn't like this man than the opposite. Before he had came along, a wizard could slip in and out of world without notice - now they were tracked down and recorded, even if only handful of people would ever see those records. "You know well enough that I did sir," he answered.

The muggle man gave him a brief smile, leaning back in his chair and crossing his fingers idly. "You're a smart man, Chief," he said. "And you know that I know that the current agreements permit wizards to live among muggles so as long they can maintain secrecy. So. Why am I demanding a meeting with you in particular after this particular move?"

Harry raised a single eyebrow at that. "Because there is something special about 221b Baker Street," he said. It couldn't me Mrs. Hudson, Harry had sensed nothing out of ordinary in her. Not John Watson anyway - the man was a former soldier, but he was a better doctor than he was a soldier and hadn't shown neither any special interest about Harry or any afflictions that would've been a matter of concern. "Sherlock Holmes," Harry said slowly.

"Sherlock Holmes," the muggle man agreed with a nod. "I suspect I already know, but how did you guess that would be it?"

"We shook hands and he knew I was in law enforcement business," the wizard answered, shaking his head. "And no one else in 221b showed any special skills, though I think John Watson is a very good soldier and a better doctor. Is Sherlock Holmes a person of interest, sir?"

"He is a person of very great interest," the muggle man agreed. "He will discover who and what you are and what you do in a single day, given the chance and incentive to bother."

Harry faced the man's almost amiable stare with expressionless face, considering that for a moment. A genius then. Magical world didn't have too many of those, but he had been in contact with muggle world enough to know what a terrifying force they could be. Muggle world also kept track of theirs much better than magical one did, which was probably why this man knew.

"So, he makes me into a security risk," Harry mused and sighed. He had rather liked 221b Baker Street. What a pity.

"I imagine by now he has already unearthed great many of your secrets - if you've given him enough a cause," the man agreed. "The problem with Sherlock Holmes is that you can't quite tell what he will do with such information. I know him well enough to know he wouldn't be as foolish as to publish it, but… well. A risk is a risk."

"Hm. What shall I do about it then, sir?" the wizard asked.

"That depends on whether or not you have enough fighting spirit to gamble a world on the character of a man you don't even know. Cut loose now and then we shall have to pray that he did not get curious enough. Or face the challenge he poses and see what kind of damage the ensuing fight will cause," the man said. "Personally, I would wish you to stay exactly where you are and keep an eye on him."

"Knowing the risks?" Harry asked, now a bit confused.

"Exactly. To know the risks is to be prepared for them. I can take care of any backslash Sherlock might try to cause, easy enough," the man said confidently. "Also, having him know might be a great advantage in some ways. Sherlock is a… very special individual. Having his skills aiding us in the daunting task of keeping the world's biggest secret, now, that would be something."

The wizard eyed the muggle man thoughtfully for a moment. So Sherlock Holmes was _very_ special. It took something terrific to get this man's interest and respect, after all. Terrific came with the potential of terrible though. One muggleborn some years back had been both - brilliant enough to realise magic four years before his admittance to Hogwarts and terrifying enough to nearly manage to reveal it all to the wide world. He had in the end ended up in Slytherin and was now on Dark Wizard watch, which he probably knew too.

Easiest way to deal with things like this would be to sidestep the problem and forget the whole thing - let Sherlock Holmes have a brief brush with world he didn't know and let the man pass it by. The potential damage wasn't worth the risk, usually. Except if he really was so brilliant, then, the chances were that one day he would connect the dots elsewhere, with or without Harry's presence. The muggleborn boy had and even with a better muggle government doing their best to keep the secret. The magicals weren't always the most… inconspicuous. Not to mention about the history which was written in muggle books. And new technologies made referencing so bloody easy too.

So. The trick would be to make Sherlock Holmes look the other way. Magic and potions could do that. Harry didn't bother even thinking about obliviation - one of the newest agreements forbade that, obliviation of people with high IQ as it tended to have a detrimental effect on intelligence. But there were other spells more suitable - notice-me-not charms and their newer variations. There were also potions that didn't affect the mind as badly. The muggle official before him knew about those too. And yet he'd rather risk exposure than rely on well tested security measure?

"Who is Sherlock Holmes to you, sir?" Harry asked finally.

"Ah, good," the man said, seeming almost delighted. "Very good. I will tell you, if you tell me something that has been bothering me ever so viciously since I first met you," the man said, and leaned closer. "Before the year 1999, you were a hero and every corner of the magical world knew you - but you were a wizard of mediocre talent and mediocre intelligence at best. You are something else now, you are a borderline genius yourself, but for the life of me I haven't been able to find out what changed you."

Harry eyed him for a moment before shaking his head. "The term that magical scientists have given it is Magical Self-Enhancement," he said. "But no one really knows. It came about the day Voldemort died and haven't left me since. The way I see it, magic gave me something I needed at the time - insight - and took away something of equal value. It's not exactly intelligence or brilliance. I just… notice things better, and connect the dots quicker."

"Ah. I see. This would be the so called Old Magic," the muggle man mused, leaning back. "The same your mother used to save you in 1981, but different. Fascinating."

"If you say so, sir," Harry agreed. If he had known what he'd be giving up that time, he never would've left that child underneath the bench. Not that thinking about it or regretting it made any difference now. "Your relation with Sherlock Holmes, sir?" he asked.

The muggle man smiled somewhat crookedly. "You could say that I am his worse enemy, in certain way. And his closest ally, in another," he said. "Sherlock Holmes is my younger brother."

Harry nodded slowly. He hadn't suspected that, but it made odd sort of sense. That made his course of action clear, though - there was no way he could tamper with Sherlock Holmes's mind now, knowing this. That was definitely not worth the risk of tempting this man's anger. What were the odds, though, him moving to the same building as the man's brilliant brother? "Mr. Holmes, is it?" he asked, and stood up. "I'll stay in 221b for a while longer; see what my own… borderline genius tells me about him. I'll get back to you when I have results."

"I could offer a monetary reward if you were to be so kind as to be thorough," the man offered. "I do keep track of my brother but Sherlock is a… slippery creature."

"I have a job to do, Mr. Holmes, and it takes most of my time. So I won't be following your brother around where ever he goes, jotting down everything he does. But I will see what I can do," Harry promised. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have week's worth of reports to go through and a concerned Minister of Magic waiting me to explain why, exactly, you side stepped him and most likely the Prime Minister too just to get to me."

The muggle man stood up as well. "The magical government deserves a bit of side stepping every now and then," he said, and then added; "And it is Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes."

Harry nodded. "A pleasure as always, Mr. Mycroft Holmes. Now please excuse me."

x

After nearly ten hours of work which consisted mostly of nothing particularly important, Harry headed back to the 221b with head too full of work to give much thought to Sherlock Holmes or Mycroft Holmes. The case of the muggle baiting had turned more interesting than he had suspected, and what had seemed like clean case of borderline ancient cursed items from who knows how long ago had turned into something else. Harry wasn't sure yet, he had yet to figure the enchantments out, but the curses in the items were far too strong to be that old.

He had the said items - a spoon and a napkin ring - in a leather case with him as he parked his motorcycle to the front of 221b and undressed his helmet. He did his best work alone these days, when he had the time to contemplate and find where his intuition took him, and it wasn't always the easiest thing to do in the noisy Ministry of Magic.

As he went about finding the keys to open the front door, a sound of car driving to the front of the house alerted him, making him glance behind him with his withdrawing to his sleeve, ready to release the spell holding his wand against his inner arm. He didn't relax even when he saw that it was a taxi, or when he saw Sherlock Holmes and John Watson coming out of it, first looking irritated and the other exasperated.

Holmes' face cleared at the sight of him, though. "Ah, Mr. Potter. Our not-security guard."

"Mr. Holmes," Harry asked, raising his eyebrows and unlocked the door. "Are you coming in?" he asked.

"Yes, hold the door," John said, before glancing at Holmes who was bending slightly examine Harry's bike. "Not-security guard?"

"Yes. Earlier Mr. Potter informed me that he was not working with the police and was instead a security guard," Holmes said, pulling off his gloves while approaching Harry. "Which was of course a lie. The DMLE-Security he supposedly works for according to the paperwork he filed with Mrs. Hudson is a front, the company doesn't exist."

"Hm," Harry answered, giving the man a thoughtful look. The man had gone through the paperwork. Had Mrs. Hudson let him look at it, or had he broken in to her apartment? "Is that so?" he asked, figuring that Mrs. Hudson had probably let him. He held the door open for the two muggles. "After you."

Holmes' eyes narrowed just slightly. "How long ago was it that you divorced? A month? After eight years of marriage and one year of engagement. A stressful divorce - you gave up in the end, and let her have most of the things you owned, and instead moved here, to two room apartment that you need to renovate. That motorbike," the man added, glancing behind them. "Is the only money worthy thing you kept, most likely because it was a gift from someone dear, an uncle perhaps, and it holds sentimental value."

Harry blinked idly and closed the door behind him once they were all in the hall. "Alright," he said, folding his arms and tapping the side of his hip with his helmet. "What else?"

"The house you and she shared was an old one too, and you had been renovating that for a long time. I'd say it was a house that was at least hundred and fifty years old," Holmes said. "And you were abused as a child, and you most likely didn't have much money, or at all, until you were a teenager - after which you didn't much need it and still don't. And you aren't just a law enforcement officer - you are at least a chief inspector level in whatever organisation it is that you work for."

The dark haired man eyed the wizard for a moment longer. "And you know my brother," he added slowly, with look of revelation on his face. "Is that why you're here? Did he hire you to watch for me since Watson wouldn't take his money?"

Harry snorted softly, shaking his head. "He did say you were a genius," he murmured, impressed despite himself.

"So I was right," Holmes said, eyes shining now with slight smugness.

"More or less, not quite spot on some things," Harry answered. "I think I can see where you got most of that from. Anyone with experience can recognise a law enforcement officer just by the way they look at things and people. Marriage, divorce, that's easy, though good job at guessing the duration," he said, lifting his left hand where the pale patch where his wedding ring used to be adorner his ring finger. "Also the age of my old home, that you got from how well I can work with this one - it takes experience to renovate an old house. Where did you get the abuse and the disuse of money from?"

Holmes shook his head, and probably would've snorted if he had been any other man. "You think you selected this house to live because it's relatively homely and cheap, because it's in prime location but that's not true. You choose it, because the apartment is in basement and it is small - wide open spaces unnerve you. I'd almost say that you have claustrophilia and or agoraphobia but it's not so severe. I imagine your childhood room was very small. Abusively small," he explained. "Broom closet?"

"Cupboard," Harry answered. "And the money?"

Holmes glanced down and nodded at Harry's short jacket. "You trousers have no pockets and your jacket pockets are all empty. You don't have a wallet, nor do you have a phone, and you don't miss them which means that you never have them and you've never needed them either. Either you were always very poor or very pampered," he explained. "Going without a phone, that's very strange for law enforcement officer, but what I don't get is why you carry a wooden stake, especially one so thin. Though I suspect that would go easily through security…"

"The moment you figure that out I might have to kill you," Harry answered with a grin and turned to head to his own flat. "What about the bike?" he asked.

"It's old, and has gone through levels of care - and for a long while was badly neglected, to the point it was nearly unusable. In the last five or so years you have been repairing and polishing it and considering your slight inexperience with the kick start, it wasn't as much fondness for the bike or bikes in general that made you do it, but for the previous owner," Holmes said, glancing towards the door.

Not bad. Not bad at all. Harry shook his head and smiled. "I still own the house," he said. "And it's not a chief inspector, more like deputy commissioner, but the equivalence doesn't much work since it's a smaller organisation than your usual police force. Also, your brother didn't hire me exactly, nor did he have anything to do with me moving _here_, but he does know how to take advantage of an opening when he sees one."

"You've met him before. Worked with him," Holmes murmured.

"Twice. Only found out his name today, though," Harry answered and waved his hand. "This is very intriguing conversation, but I really need my evening tea, and then I have renovation to get back to. We'll have to continue some other time."

As he left Holmes and John to the corridor alone, he made a mental note to set up some listening charms here and there. Holmes was quicker than he had expected and he would probably need to scrape every advantage he could to keep up, not to mention about keeping ahead. He'd also need start putting up wards to his rooms, because Sherlock Holmes did not feel like man who felt himself above breaking and entering.

Still it was only matter of time before Sherlock Holmes found out, just like his brother had said. What to do when he did, that was the problem.

xx

So, I watched the new BBC Sherlock series, and liked it - which with me always leads to Harry Potter crossovers, it's funny how that happens. I will probably continue this, but it might take a while - I need to work out a proper magical murder case first, and that might take time. Murder mysteries aren't my strong forte.

My apologies for possible grammar errors and such.

**EDIT GODDAMN IT BECAUSE SO MANY PEOPLE FEEL THE NEED TO POINT THIS TO ME.**

"Actually, Harry moved to 221c, not 221b because the flat Sherlock and John live in is 221b and the place Mrs. Hudson lives is 221a"

... no. no, no, NO, it is NOT. THE ADDRESS OF THE WHOLE ESTATE OWNED BY MRS. HUDSON IS 221B BAKER STREET. 221A I IMAGINE IS NEXT DOOR, AND 221C PROBABLY DOESN'T EVEN EXIST. IF SHERLOCK AND JOHN ALONE LIVED IN 221B, WHY THE HELL WOULD THE NUMBER, 221**B, **NOTICE, WITH THE EFFING** B, **BE ON THE GODDAMNED** FRONT DOOR?! **"Oh, we'll only name one flat in this complex on the door, sorry for the confusion mailman, just take the mail for the other flats back?" **I DON'T EFFING THINK SO.** If the flats do have separate designations, then they probably go along 221b-1, 221b-2 and 221b-3, or something, but I doubt there was any need for it since everyone in the place knows everyone and I imagine Mrs. Hudson always delivers everyone's mail to everyone personally, etc.

**And I don't care that they slapped 221c on the door of the basement flat. As far as I'm concerned that was the mistake of the staging department.**


	2. Chapter 2

Warnings; Somewhat ooc intelligent!Harry. Past Harry x Ginny, mentions of Ron x Hermione. Some spoilers.

**Potter in Baker Street**

John sighed to himself, rubbing a hand across his neck before shaking head and turning away, leaving Sherlock to stare after Harry Potter. If he hadn't yet gotten used to the way Sherlock thought and worked, he might've asked if it had been entirely necessary, to air the man's life out like that. Abuse? That was a bit heavy even for Sherlock; usually he could at least… vaguely sense that poking at _that_ was a bad idea. But then, considering Harry's reaction, maybe not.

"I'll put the tea on," he said and headed upstairs, not really expecting an answer. He shook his head again, thinking back. He had thought Harry was an okay bloke, more or less normal - bit on the defiantly independent side and a bit stiff around the edges. Unsmiling fellow, for the most time, and when ever it did come about it always seemed like a surprise. He shouldn't have known there was more to it than that. And you could always trust Sherlock to unearth all the secrets of everyone he met.

Hired by Mycroft, though, that was interesting.

Coming to their flat, John gave a slight glance around and sighed, before leaving his jacket to the armchair and heading to the cluttered kitchen to try and find something - hopefully clean and unpoisoned - to make tea in. After spending good four hours running about after Sherlock as the man tried to track down the movements of a suspect in order to find where he dumped the phone, he needed something warm to drink.

He had gotten the tea going by the time Sherlock joined him, closing the door behind him and immediately going for his nicotine patches. John glanced at him and smothered the urge to roll his eyes at the sight of Sherlock throwing his coat and scarf away and peeling up his sleeve to replace the patch. "That hard, huh?" he murmured, when one new patch was joined by another.

"He's more admirable opponent than I suspected - I only scratched the surface," Sherlock answered, clenching his hand into a fist, then releasing it and flopping down to lay on the couch. "And only private matters."

"Only?" John asked under his breath and turned to take the water heater off its base. "Shouldn't you be concentrating onto the case and that dead student?"

Sherlock made a sound that could've been a snort, but since it was Sherlock it probably wasn't. "I've already texted to Lestrade - it was the janitor."

"Okay then," the other man murmured, not bothering to dispute that. Instead he fixed them the tea before placing the cups onto a tray and carrying them to the living room. "I'll bite. Why was it the janitor?"

"It's obvious, really," the world's only consulting detective said, eyes closed and hands clenched, enjoying his nicotine rush probably. "He has a record of being a pickpocket - Lestrade informed me that he was obviously recovered from his thieving habits but I think not. He makes more money than janitor's wages ought to give him, and the first thing he did when we met was to note the model of my phone - told us that he was trying to keep up with the times, but I rather doubt that. In a school phones disappear all the time, but in this particular school they disappear at alarming rate, expensive new models, smart phones, palm tops…"

"And who'd suspect a janitor when kids steal more than their share," John surmised. "What about the kid, then, Andrew Smith?"

"Athletic, practices several Japanese martial arts on his free time - therefore has quick reflexes and quick reactions. He noticed Mr. Lucas trying to take his phone and fought back. Mr Lucas is quite a big man, however, and managed to with luck and desperation push the boy back, resulting with Mr Smith colliding fatally with the floor - death was no doubt instantaneous. Mr Smith is a pick pocket and not a killer, however, and he panicked - stole Mr Smith's phone like he had planned, then dumped his body, cleaned the aftermath. Later he realised that carrying Mr Smith's phone was not a good idea, and he got rid of it."

John blinked, trying to backtrack the case while taking a sip of his tea. "And you got that from, what, Andrew's phone being missing?"

"That, from the serial thievery at the school, from Mr. Lucas's behaviour and from Mr. Smith's injury. That sort of fracture can only come from impact to a solid stone floor, the sort the school has in its corridors. The floors were clean, however, even UV light wouldn't have revealed any stains, ergo, someone with measure of experience cleaned the stains, and I rather doubt any of the students knew how," Sherlock answered and suddenly glanced up to John. "What kind of police force uses front companies?"

The former soldier paused a bit at that. "Secret intelligence service?" he suggested.

"Secret service isn't exactly a police force. Mr. Potter is a police inspector through and through - a _copper_ if I ever saw one," Sherlock denied. "Deputy commissioner… recently promoted, I think. Quite young for that position too."

"Yeah, how can he have been married for eight years if he's just a kid himself?" John asked. He had thought Harry was something like twenty two or thereabouts - but having been married for that long, he couldn't be.

"Don't let his appearances fool you. He is already in his early thirties. It isn't surgical, however, there have been no alterations made to his face," the other man said, shaking his head. "And he has been working with his not-police force at least as long as he has been married, most likely even longer. And worked with Mycroft twice, not just met or brushed with, worked. Meaning he has been involved in some very important cases and that he doesn't work for Mycroft on daily basis…"

John nodded as Sherlock trailed away, no doubt to think it rather than to speak it as it was always faster that way. Sighing and leaning back in his chair, the doctor sipped his tea again. He'd bet his hat if he owned one that the following day he'd find Sherlock breaking into Harry's flat the moment the man would head to work - where ever he worked.

x

In the end, Sherlock didn't break into Harry's house - that morning anyway. By the time John woke up and blearily tried to make himself some tea, a little annoyed that there wasn't enough space in the kitchen for a good old coffee maker, Sherlock was already up and about, his smart phone practically glued to his hands.

"What's it this time?" John asked, rubbing a hand over his eyes and not yet awake enough to actually care what was having Sherlock nearly literally jumping on the couch. On the couch and off the couch, actually. Had to be something special though.

"Five simultaneous deaths in different parts of London - three women and one man asphyxiated in their beds, and one woman on her balcony," Sherlock answered without looking up, thumbs working hard on the keypad of his phone as he dug up anything and everything he could about the incident. After a moment of quiet, he let out a satisfied sound. "They all play bridge together."

"And they were asphyxiated?" John asked, yawning and nearly pouring tea onto a Petri dish Sherlock had left onto the counter. Grumbling, he moved it aside. "Sixth player got annoyed about loosing?"

"Good idea, but I doubt it," Sherlock answered, enclosing the phone between two open palms, eyes practically shining. "No one person could've done it all in the time frame set up by the reports - even during the night they would've had to break all possible speed limits to make each location. Which means several killers, two or most likely more - or a drug of some sort."

John nodded slowly, while Sherlock went tearing about the room, in search for clothing. "You probably should let Lestrade know you're coming," he suggested, turning back to his tea.

"Oh he knows - or he should," the detective answered with note of triumph in his voice as he shucked off his night clothes. "Might be late - most likely, yes. Don't wait up."

"I won't," John sighed, glancing at the clock near by. He'd have relatively short shift at the hospital today, so he'd probably end up being roped into the case unless Sherlock managed to crack it before he'd be done for the day. Maybe he should bring the gun with him - it was somewhat likely that Sherlock would pull him into it straight from the hospital, that had happened a couple of times…

"Well, have fun. Try not to get arrested," John said, walking to the sitting room and reaching for the TV remote.

"You've gotten ever so dull since you got that job. Maybe you should reconsider," the detective asked, while heading for the door.

"I've got to pay my share of the rent somehow, Sherlock," John answered with a shake of his head, and sat down to the couch while the TV turned on. As the floor shut after his flatmate, he flicked through the channels until he found Sherlock's new case in the news.

"… when a neighbour witnessed Mrs. Jane Worth falling from the balcony of her third-floor apartment in Soho last night," the newscaster was telling, a picture of a middle aged woman showing beside him. "The death according to the preliminary investigation wasn't caused by the fall, but asphyxiation. Witness reports have Mrs. Worth trying to reach out past her balcony baluster when she fell."

John leaned back in the sofa, taking another sip of the tea as the reporter went over the case. Apparently police had discovered the other dead people after trying to come in contact with the last people Mrs. Worth had seen - her bridge club, all of whom had been found suffocated as well. "So far the reports on whether or not this was induced by some drug or poison are inconclusive," the reporter finished, before moving onto another bit of news.

"Sherlock should have fun with that," he murmured, stretching. And he'd hear all about it sooner or later too. Placing the remote control down, he glanced at the clock again. He had hour or so before he needed to get going. He might as well do something productive - like clean a bit, since Sherlock wasn't about to stop him.

He had cleaned up some of the rubbish in the kitchen and living room and was taking the trash bags to the bin outside, when he heard a noise of wood tearing and then bang as something broke, coming from the basement flat. The door hung open there and curious he peeked inside to see Harry prying the door frames off with a crow bar.

"You're working early," he noted.

The shorter man glanced up and lowered the crowbar. "Morning, John," he said, before turning to the frames. "I got couple of hours before I need to head to the office, so I figured I might as well get working on this," he mused, taking a hammer and starting to pry some nails off the wall. "I should've realised I'd need to replace the door frames before I put up the new wall papers," he muttered, more to himself than to the doctor.

"You should've?" John asked, curious. He had never done much renovation, so he really had no idea.

"Yeah. The frame is too small - modern doors are a little bit bigger and only way I could get a new door for these frames would be if I specifically ordered it, and I don't want to use more money than I have to. So I need new frames," Harry answered, grunting as he got one of the nails off, and dropping it into a bucket full of wood debris. "Didn't realise it earlier."

"Hindsight is always twenty-twenty," John nodded sympathetically. "You need a hand? I got some free time too before my shift at the clinic."

"It's okay," Harry answered with a nod and then glanced at him. "I saw Mr. Holmes when he was heading out. He seemed… somewhat happy."

"He got himself a case, more or less," John said, shaking his head with half amusement and half exasperation.

"A case?"

The doctor frowned and gave him a look. "You don't know? Um, Sherlock's sort of like private detective. Or consulting detective as he calls himself. He works a lot with the police, helps around with tricky cases and such," he explained. "Didn't Mycroft tell you?"

"Hm. Didn't come up, I guess, we were talking about other things. I guess it makes sense," Harry mused thoughtfully. "A man with that kind of ability needs a job that suits it, I suppose. He's always like that, I presume?"

"Sherlock? Yeah. He is," John answered with a mild grimace, before giving the man a thoughtful look. People tended to have only so many ways to reacting to Sherlock. More often than not they got irritated with him. Then were those who took it as a sort of infuriating joke and tried to laugh it up. Few, like John himself, were fascinated and amused. Harry though had almost taken it with stride. He had barely reacted even when Sherlock had poked at all those terribly personal subjects.

"I'm sorry about that, by the way. Sherlock, he… isn't exactly a people person," he said thoughtfully, wondering. There was something special about Harry, obviously. Hired by Mycroft and part of some secret police organisation, that was pretty special. But his mannerism too. It somehow actually reminded him of Sherlock at times.

"I guess he doesn't have to be," Harry mused, scratching the side of his cheek with the hammer claw. "And don't worry about it. I've dealt with much worse than him - and it's not like I didn't already know about that stuff."

"So, it was all true?" John asked, unable to help himself. "You, when you were a kid…" he stopped there, awkward - because he wasn't Sherlock and he couldn't just go and poke his nose into someone's childhood traumas.

"Hm? Oh, yes, cupboard," Harry answered and snorted softly. "It wasn't that bad really - it wasn't like I was beaten. And in the end, there are much worse places to sleep in than cupboard," he added, before giving John a look. "You would know, I guess."

John frowned, before raising his eyebrows in realisation. "Mycroft told you about my past."

"Didn't say anything about you, actually. But I can see it in you. Hair cut, posture, the way you stand and walk - you still get back aches in certain types of beds because they're too soft. I would suggest a harder mattress - though at this point it might just make it worse," Harry shrugged, and turned back to the doorframe. "Besides, there is a very soldier like feel to you. It's like you're still expecting people to call you to attention."

"… oh," the doctor mused, and suddenly realised why Mycroft had hired this man to look after Sherlock - or spy on him or whatever it was that Harry was supposed to do. "You're like them, aren't you? Like Sherlock and Mycroft - you too are a genius."

To his surprise the man laughed at that - sharp, almost alien sound, as if this man didn't quite know how to laugh right. "No," Harry said, shaking his head and chuckling awkwardly. "No, no. I can't hold a candle to your flatmate, not to mention about Mr. Mycroft Holmes."

"But you're nearly there," John murmured, nodding to himself. That was why Harry hadn't reacted much to Sherlock's tirade - he could probably do it himself.

"No, not even nearly," Harry denied, and took the crowbar again. "What is the case?" he asked absently, while starting to pry another part of the wooden frames off. "Mr Holmes' case, the one he so happily headed out to solve. What is it?"

"Oh. Um, five people, all members of some bridge club, suffocated last night. Apparently all about the same time," John said. "They're not yet calling them murders, but really. Five people don't suffocate all on their own at the same time."

"You'd be surprised," Harry murmured and shook his head. "Well, I hope he has fun," he mused and the piece of wood broke off the rest of the frames with a loud bang. "Weren't you taking those out?" the man then asked, glancing up and then nodding at the bags John was still holding. "Not that I mind the company, but they have a bit of an odour."

"Oh, right, sorry," John said with a grimace, and turned to leave. "I need to start getting ready for work anyway."

"Well, have a good day," Harry bid him from below, followed by another bang of wood.

x

John sighed, rubbing his neck before shrugging his coat off and smoothing a hand over it. It was still a bit weird to wear a white coat at times, he mused while pushing it into his locker. So very different from the shrubs he had worn on the field. The work was very different too - the days at the hospital tended to be blessedly mundane and boring - something which was a welcome change to the way things tended to be around Sherlock, he had to admit. Still, it would take a little bit more to get used to.

"You alright there, doc?" one of the nurses asked.

"Fine. Just a neck ache, is all," John assured. Maybe he needed to get a new pillow or something. Or a back massage. Shaking his head he pushed his locker shut, before a beeping coming from his pocket alerted him, making him dig the smart phone out.

_Bart's morgue__, at 1500. SH_

"Right," he murmured and glanced at the time on the phone's screen. 14:03. Well, at least Sherlock had given him enough time to get there, more or less. A little bit more time would've been nice - he hadn't had the time for lunch, after all - but it wasn't like it was the first time. Sherlock was almost like a good diet at times, John mused, turning the key lock on and pushing the phone back to his pocket. With the man around and on a case, no one tended to get enough time to eat. Mostly because Sherlock himself wouldn't stop to eat. Or sleep.

"I'll be off," he said, glancing at the male nurse. "Till tomorrow then,"

"Bye, doc," the nurse nodded, and with that rather unceremonious farewell, John headed out. He'd need to catch a cab to make it to the mortuary at time, he'd be there at four o'clock the soonest if he took public transit. It wouldn't give him any time to eat though, because if he knew Sherlock the morgue wouldn't be the last place they'd see that night - and there would probably be no time to rest or eat in between, seeing that Sherlock never did.

Shaking his head, John dug out his wallet and checked the change he had. It wasn't much - he barely used any cash these days, especially since using Sherlock's debit card for most of his shopping had became more or less the norm for him. But, if he was lucky… he just might manage to buy a sandwich from the cafeteria. It would have to do.

"John, you're heading out already?" a familiar voice called as he left the frankly rather small cafeteria. Sarah approached him, her hands into the pockets of her white coat.

"Yeah, I'm done for today," John agreed with a mild smile while pushing the just-bought sandwich to his pocket. He'd eat it later when he'd get really hungry. "And I managed to do all my patients all my self, too," he added with a grin.

"No more interesting book events, I see," she agreed with a grin, before it faded slightly. She glanced around and then forced a smile. "Um, about this Friday… I'm not sure if I…"

John blinked slightly at that and then straightened his back. "You don't - um, that's okay," he said, forcing back the urge to frown. That was the third date she had shot down just little after he had suggested it. "Another time then?" he asked, but he was starting to wonder if it was worth the bother anymore. He might've not been Sherlock - or Harry - as far as brains went, but he wasn't completely thick.

"Um…" she said, glancing at the clock as if it could tell her future schedules - or her future moods.

"You know what, never mind," John offered, and grinned awkwardly as she shot him uncertain frown, looking like she was afraid she had insulted him. She really hadn't though. He understood - after their rather destructive first date, he wouldn't have wanted to go on second date with him either. "Let's just have a pint sometimes."

Sarah blinked and then looked a bit relieved. "Doctor Jansen is having a sort of make-shift bachelorette party next week," she said, with tone of suggestion and peace offering. "It's probably just going to be drinking, maybe from going from pup to pup, nothing grand. You should come - I can introduce you to everyone."

"Erm, bachelorette, I don't…" he trailed away awkwardly. Yes of course. Instantly he went from _it's okay if you don't want to date_ to being _one of the girls_. He should've expected that - it was somehow the only reaction people had, to seeing him and Sherlock anywhere near each other. "Let me get back to you on that. I need to get going, I uh…" he lifted his phone awkwardly, and then decided not to mention Sherlock because that would just make it worse. "Previous engagements."

"Yes, of course," Sarah nodded and smiled.

He nodded and then, with another awkward smile, practically fled. He did not want to hear the _"You're an okay guy, Sherlock is lucky…"_ which was probably looming about her tongue. He had heard it way too many times already - from people he knew, people Sherlock worked with, from Sherlock's own brother even if not in those exact words, and from Mrs. Hudson - on daily bases.

He probably should've gotten used to that too.

Pushing the thought from his head, he looked about before starting to quickly make his way to the main street, pulling out his wallet again to check if he had enough for the fare. Just barely. "Maybe I should start charging Sherlock for assistant fee, if not for anything else then for the transportation costs," he mused and then went about catching a cab.

He got to Bart's just five minutes short of dead line, but wasn't too surprised to find Sherlock already there with Inspector Lestrade, by the looks of it waiting for him in front of the building. "There you are. How was the work? Thrilling?" Sherlock asked.

"Blissfully ordinary. How is the case going?" John asked back.

"Utterly fascinating. Three locked room murders amidst series of five. Magnificent," Sherlock said, smiling with absolute delight and then frowned. "Either that or a more ordinary case of poisoning. Either way, I want to inspect the bodies," he said, and turned to Lestrade. "Can we go in now?"

"Fine, fine," Lestrade sighed and gave John a look. "He's been like a kid at Christmas all day," he said. "So you think you could try putting on some reins on him, Doctor Watson?"

"I doubt it would help," John answered with a snort.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes at them before turning to the building entrance. Shaking his head, John and Lestrade turned to follow him. Making their way to the morgue was easily enough done, and in there the bodies were already out on the tables, four women, one man.

"Right," Sherlock murmured, and pointed the body on the further right. "You start with that one, John, I will start from this direction."

"What am I looking for?" John asked, pushing his sleeves up and going about getting some rubber gloves. He didn't honestly expect an answer, though - Sherlock didn't tend to look for anything special as much he looked for everything.

"Let's start with cause of death and move on from there," Sherlock said with a fleeting, fake smile and then turned to work, his folding magnifying glass already out and the glass pulled out from its protective shell. As he went about checking the body for superficial marks, John pulled the gloves on and turned to right-most body.

Female, in her late forties, early fifties, he mused to himself while going about checking her neck. She had been slightly overweight, and the extra fat made it hard to tell, not to mention about the rigor mortis, though it was already dissipating… "Twelve to seventeen hours since death," he murmured, more to himself than to Sherlock or Lestrade. They both probably knew already.

Regardless of the rigor mortis, the neck area didn't seem swollen or tight. Frowning, John pried the woman's mouth open, pressing at her tongue to see the throat. It wasn't swollen - looked perfectly normal, there wasn't even any unusual discoloration. So, whatever the poison or drug was, it wasn't the obvious. He said as much out loud.

"Yes, I agree," Sherlock mused from where he had already moved on and to the next body

"But it has to be - there were no signs of struggle. Even the coroner said as much," Lestrade said. "And we're still waiting for the blood analysis."

"If they find anything, let me know," Sherlock said, leaning back and snapping the magnifying class back to its shell. "Five simultaneous deaths, no signs of struggle or forced entry, two of the locations locked room with no way inside, and now, no any visible signs of any drug exposure. Hm… something that affects the oxygen intake perhaps? Or something new…"

"What's he saying?" Lestrade asked, while Sherlock started to pace back and forth, deep in thought.

"If there was drug used, whatever it was, it didn't leave any signs. There is no swelling in the throat, it didn't close up," John explained, moving onto the next body. It was the same tale - the neck and throat were absolutely fine and so were the lungs as far as he could tell. "I'm not entirely sure if it was asphyxiation at all, there are no signs of it."

"Oxygen and carbon dioxide levels in the blood, easy enough to test. I imagine examination of the lungs confirmed it?" Sherlock asked, glancing at Lestrade.

"The coroner was pretty sure that they all suffocated, yeah," Lestrade answered, frowning and folding his arms. "Are you saying that these people didn't choke but that they just… stopped breathing?"

"It looks that way, doesn't it?" Sherlock asked, looking up. "I need to visit the place where they all were together the last time."

"Where they played bridge?" Lestrade asked. "You think that whatever was fed to them was fed there?"

"Well obviously," Sherlock said, looking between Lestrade and John and then turning abruptly to leave.

"Right," John murmured, quickly pulling his gloves off and giving Lestrade a look.

"Oh, just go," the man sighed, running a hand over his hair. "I've been wake for nearly thirty six hours now, I don't have the energy to run after Sherlock Holmes right now. Just text me if he finds anything, alright?"

"Right," John agreed, and then hurried after his flatmate, knowing that if he let Sherlock get a too much of a head start, he'd be left standing alone on the side of a street, staring at the back end of a taxi speeding away.

"So," he asked after catching the taller man just out on the street where Sherlock was just hailing the said taxi. "You visited all the scenes already?"

"Yes. There wasn't much to be seen - no forced entry, no sign of struggle, nothing out of ordinary," Sherlock said and stepped forward as a taxi slowed down to pick them up. "In Mrs. and Mr. Grey's house every door was locked, every window bolted shut, even the bedroom door was locked from the inside, no doubt to keep the dog outside, and it was more or less the same in Miss Bagley's house. They came home, they went about their evening, went to bed and then died in their sleep around one o'clock in the morning."

"One o'clock?" John asked, as Sherlock opened the door and shifted into the cab.

"That's when Jane Worth fell off her balcony," Sherlock said, and then told the cab driver the address. "And they all died at the same time, or very nearly."

"Whatever drug they took, it was very precise as far as timing went, then. And they all took it at the same time," John murmured. "Could be a group suicide," he added, but he rather doubted that. It would've been mentioned by now, if it was.

"No. None of them took any steps to it, none of them prepared - they all had engagements in the following days, appointments, meetings," Sherlock answered. "It was murder, and figuring out what drug was used, when and how it was given to them will be the key to discovering who was behind it."

"Hm," John nodded, leaning back and folding his arms as the taxi wove around the traffic. "Someone who had a grudge or someone who would benefit… Are there any suspects yet?"

"A couple. Estranged son of fairly wealthy Tina Bagley, ex-husband of Edna Deering, the usual," the consulting detective answered. "I'll know more once I see the place where they played."

"Okay," John agreed. "Where was that exactly?"

"A bingo club, hosts bridge two days of the week, their usual meeting place," Sherlock answered, looking out of the window. "It'll be some half an hour before we make it there."

John nodded, looking out and to the traffic too. "You know, Harry Potter… Do you think he's a genius like you?" he asked, glancing at his flatmate.

"I don't know about that, but he's no doubt very clever," Sherlock answered distractedly. "We will have to sweep the flat when we get home, no doubt he will have installed bugs. Right now, though, he is not our problem."

"Right," the doctor murmured, rubbing his neck. Maybe one day he would get used to the idea that Mycroft had everyone - and most of all Sherlock - under surveillance. He'd probably never gain the level of nonchalance about it that Sherlock had, though.

It was a pity, though. Harry had seemed like such an okay guy, and now John couldn't help but wonder if the man had been making mental notes since the beginning.

Around Holmes he would probably should have already gotten used to people not being what they seemed, though.

x

The bingo club was mostly deserted, aside from a couple of old men playing checkers in the corner of the hall, and teary attendant, who kept glancing to an old telly where the news was explaining the details of the five suffocations once more.

"They were good people," she said, wiping her eyes. "Danny and Ellen, god, they were such nice people - such grand parents, you know? They always made the tea together, bickering all the way, serving everyone else. And Jane, oh, she was such a diva - always wore such nice clothing, and they always looked so nice even if she was in her sixties! And Tina, she used to come here before her hip, she used to help me out with cleaning and with the food on bingo days, such a nice woman…"

"And they were here, yesterday?" Sherlock asked, while John looked around in the hall.

"Yeah every Tuesday and Thursday. That's their table over there - Tina brought the plant," the attendant nodded, with teary smile as she pointed at one of the rounded table. There was a potted plant with bright yellow flowers in the middle of it.

"And nothing out of the ordinary happened?" Sherlock asked. "Can you tell me how the evening went?"

"Um, sure. It was perfectly ordinary day - they came around five o'clock. Tina set the table while Danny and Ellen made the tea - we have a system on bridge days, the customers make their own tea but they can use the hall supplies. I swear, those two knew the kitchens better than I did, with the time they spent there, fussing about," she smiled, nodding towards door which apparently led to the kitchen. Edna brought the biscuits - I remember that well, because she makes them herself, these flower biscuits with just a bit of jam in the middle, I swear they look like lilies -"

"Biscuits," Sherlock murmured. "Can you tell me more about Edna Deering?"

"Um. Well. She's been coming here for about two years. She has the cutest grand daughter, Laura, she sometimes came with her," the attendant said. "She always makes the best biscuits and cookies, I swear," she chuckled and nodded towards the counter, where there was a bowl. "She made those - they always bring me some too, when they come. Or, they did, rather…" she added, getting teary again.

While Sherlock made a beeline for the bowl, John smiled awkwardly at he woman. "Did you eat any of them yourself?" he asked.

"Yes, of course. They're delicious - you can have some, if you want," she offered.

"Hm. Don't mind if I do," Sherlock agreed, taking out an evidence bag and tipping the entire bowl into it, much to the attendant's confusion. "You wouldn't happen to have any of the biscuits they shared between themselves while playing?" he asked.

"Edna tipped the box over to my bowl, so if there's any left, they'll be in that," the attendant nodded with mild frown, glancing between John and Sherlock. "You're with the police, right?"

"Sort of -"

"Can we look at your kitchen?" Sherlock cut in, already making his way to the door. "It won't take but a moment."

John sighed, and offered the woman an apologetic look. "We're investigating their deaths, yeah," he said and figured that it was his job, again, to be the distraction while Sherlock went and did the Sherlock-thing. "Can you tell me more about -"

He stopped, as bang of door being opened echoed in the hall. Turning around and seeing from the corner of his eye how Sherlock did the same, he saw a group of people - two men and one woman, all dressed in nearly identical dark suits - coming in.

"Hi," the man in lead, tall redhead with heavily freckled face, grinned and flashed a badge to the room at large. "I'm sorry for the intrusion but I'm going to have to ask you to vacate the premises," he said almost cheerfully.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock asked, stepping closer while John eyed the red haired man, wondering where he had seen the man before.

"I think you heard me," the redheaded man said, smiling. "This building is as of now considered a crime scene and as such I need all civilians out. I'm sorry for the inconvenience but - oi!" he snapped, as Sherlock, who had strode over to him, plucked the badge from his fingers.

"It is real if that's what you're -" the redhead started as the detective didn't just glance over the badge, but quickly brought his phone up and snatched a picture. John nearly groaned as Sherlock flicked the badge back at the man so that he could concentrate onto the phone, no doubt running the picture through who knew what sites and people for authentication.

"What the hell?" the redhead muttered, sharing a look with his two companions.

"Hm. It's real," Sherlock murmured after a moment and pushed his phone back to his pocket. "What is the Secret Intelligence Service doing here… Mr. Weasley, was it?"

"It wouldn't be a secret if you knew, now would it?" the redhead asked, sounding a bit miffed off as he shoved the badge away. "I think I already asked you to vacate the premises," he added, nodding to his two companions, one of whom moved over to talk with the two men playing checkers, and another approaching the hall attendant.

"This place is integral to our investigation," Sherlock answered, frowning thoughtfully at the Secret Intelligence Service agent.

"What do you know; it's integral for ours too," the man answered with a frown of his own, while his two companions ushered the other civilians out of the hall. "And unless you start presenting some identification telling me otherwise, it is perfectly within my rights to have you thrown out."

"Hm," Sherlock answered, casting a glance around the hall and then turning on his hell. "Come along, John," he said, heading for the entrance.

"Right," John murmured with a sigh and followed, wondering what the hell was going on. The redheaded man, Weasley, shook his head and snapped his fingers at his two companions, who as soon as Sherlock and John were out both closed and locked the door before going about, pulling curtains shut.

"Okay, what was that about?" the doctor asked, as they lingered about the side walk, eying the front of the bingo hall.

"I don't know, exactly, but this is very interesting," Sherlock answered, his phone out and no doubt in middle of in-depth internet search. "There are only so many things these guys would get involved with, which means that there is a bit more to this case than I previously thought…"

"Great," John murmured, and as Sherlock suddenly turned to head down the street, he hurried after the man. "So, what are we doing now?"

"We're going here," Sherlock answered, and ducked to the alley. He showed his phone's screen over his shoulder, on which there was a picture of back of a building - the very building they had just been chased out of. There was a ventilation duct there.

"You don't seriously think we can crawl in through the ventilation ducts?" John more asked than stated.

"No, of course not. But with some luck, the duct might carry the voices of the people inside," Sherlock answered, as they came to the back of the building. He made his way to the ventilation duct and leaned in to listen, before John noticed something.

"Sherlock -"

"Shush, I can hear something," the detective answered, crouching down

"_Sherlock_," John hissed and nodded at the window under which he was standing. "Window, open!"

The taller man blinked and let out a soft "oh," before standing up and quickly joining him at the window, pressing close to the wall to avoid being seen. Then, sharing a look, they listened in.

"… here somewhere," the redheaded man, Weasley, was saying.

"But if it's like the other ones, this will take ages," another voice pointed, a female one, out. "Last time it took us nearly an hour to find the right one."

A male voice, probably from the last of the three, snorted in agreement. "Yeah, these things are pretty subtle - and it's not like we can just confiscate every item in the entire building, or we could, but how the hell would we transport all that back to the Ministry?"

"Yeah, you're right. Just, let's confirm that it's here; we should be able to do that at least," Weasley muttered, his voice fading a bit as he walked away.

"The Chief would find it in a flash," the unknown male pointed out.

"Will you call him?" the woman asked almost eagerly.

"I just might. He's the one who pitched this mess at me so he'd deserve it," Weasley snorted. "Though he'd probably just be happy to get out of the office. Just find if it is here at all and if it is, then I'll call him."

John frowned as the people went quiet in the bingo club, and shared a look with Sherlock. "What are they talking about?" he mouthed silently.

Sherlock smiled mirthlessly. "The murder weapon," he answered, and made a motion with his finger, telling John to follow him as he pulled away from the wall and turned to return to the street. "Very interesting," the detective murmured, once they were safely away from the window. "They know what the murder weapon is, but don't know what it looks like, only that it is subtle…"

"Okay, good for them. What does this mean for us?" John asked.

"More or less that we've lost the handle of this investigation - the Secret Intelligence Service's taken over, they've probably taken the bodies from Bart's already," Sherlock murmured. "We won't have anything to go on with, as far as the deaths go. However… there is still something."

"Like?" the doctor asked, stretching his arms.

"Like figuring out who had access to the chemical weapon and why they used it to kill five seemingly ordinary people from a bridge club?" the world's only consulting detective answered.

"A what, chemical weapon?" John asked with incredulous tone of voice.

"Why else would the Secret Intelligence Service be here?" Sherlock asked and then glanced around. "Of course it's a chemical weapon. A poison or something of the sort, something very new I imagine, new and very dangerous. There," he nodded across the street, and to a tea shop that stood there. "Let's go over there."

"Chemical weapon. Right," John nodded, feeling more than a little bewildered as he followed Sherlock to the tea shop.

While Sherlock watched the bingo club, John ordered himself some tea, figuring that he might as well take advantage of the momentary break. As he stirred the tea, Sherlock eyed the street keenly, with a tight expression on his face. "Pisses you off then, that you got derailed?" John asked.

"Viciously," Sherlock admitted. "There are some operations I don't much care for being part of however, and chemical weapons always had struck me as one of the most boring ways about making war or crime." He stopped there and gave John a side ways look, a mild expectant frown on his brow.

The former soldier snorted softly. Had he really nagged about Sherlock's behaviour enough for the man to start expecting it? Apparently so. "A bit not good," he said, "but could be worse. Make _boring_ into _vile_ and it's almost socially acceptable," John finished instructing, making the genius roll his eyes. Then they were quiet for a moment, Sherlock looking out while John waited his drink to cool a bit. "So, what's the but?" the doctor asked, turning to his tea again. "There are some things you don't care for being part of, etcetera, but…?"

"But I am curious as to why someone would use something like here and on those particular people. What was the motivation what was the gain - or was there one to begin with, and -" Sherlock suddenly stopped, perking up slightly in his seat and making the other man glance up as well. John blinked at the sound of mechanical purring, distantly familiar, and then looked outside.

A black motorcycle - very much like the one that now could be often found parked in front of 221b Baker Street, had just driven to the front of the bingo club. "Harry?" he asked with confusion, at the sight of the familiar biker swinging his leg over the back of the bike, undressing his helmet.

"What the bloody hell is he doing here?" Sherlock asked, already getting up. John, after one final sip of his half drunk tea, hurried after him, as curious as he was.

Harry was just hanging the helmet onto the bike's handle, as Sherlock and John came from across the street. They weren't the first to reach the tenant of 221b's basement flat, however, as the red headed agent opened the bingo club's door, coming out. "Since when did you became a seer - I was just about to call you," Weasley noted.

"I didn't. I'm on my lunch break, got bored," Harry answered, adjusting his glasses. "Did you find it?"

"No, but we know it's here. That's why I was going to call you -" Weasley started and then stopped at the sight of Sherlock and John, who were now almost behind Harry. The redhead frowned, straightening his back a bit while Harry glanced over his shoulder, not looking surprised in the least.

"Mr Holmes, John," he said, nodding.

"You - they're your people. But…" Sherlock started, looking between Harry and Weasley, scowling. "That makes no sense - you're not from the Secret Intelligence Service, I would know. Unless they're not either…"

"Harry, shouldn't we -?" Weasley started, glancing around and then tugging at his right sleeve, signalling something probably

"It's alright, Ron, I'll handle this," Harry said with a fleeting smile at the man. "Go on, I'll be there in a moment," he added and after a moment of consideration the redhead turned and headed back inside.

"Oh," John murmured. "That's where I met him; he was helping you move your stuff at Baker Street."

"Ron? Hm, yes, he was. Me and him, we've been mates since we were little brats," Harry agreed calmly while eying Sherlock who was eying him like a little bit of more staring would turn the man completely transparent.

"Since you were young, and now you work in same organisation?" Sherlock asked after a moment, eyes narrowed. Then he seemed to think better of it - something about Harry's face probably told him he wouldn't get an answer - and instead he moved on. "Why are you hijacking my case like this, Mr. Potter? You're not from the Secret Intelligence Service, so I suspect my conclusion of chemical weapon being involved is mistaken…"

Harry shook his head, looking mildly impressed. "Chemical weapons hm? Alright," he said, and made a come-on motion with his hand. "Let's have it all then. I'm sure there's more, and I'm all ears."

John looked between him and Sherlock with interest while his flatmates eyes flashed and he straightened himself to full height. That was the sort of come-on that Sherlock could've never passed by.

To his surprise, however, this time the man did. "Fool me once, Mr. Potter," he said instead rather coolly. "Why are you hijacking my case?"

The man laughs softly, shaking his head. "Because it's my job," he answered, tugging his leather gloves almost absently off and tugging them to his pockets. "Because your murder weapon is what my whole career is based upon - in more ways than one. And because, really, you don't have the capability necessary for handling it."

Sherlock's eyes twitch, deducting and deducing some fact about the words that went right past John. He says nothing about it however and instead snorted softly. "So, you're taking the murder weapon. Am I to expect to find myself completely without a leg to stand on if I try to continue trying to solve these murders?" he asked, sounding nearly disgusted.

"Hm," Harry hummed, folding his arms and eying him quietly for a moment. "That depends on your work ethics. And your pride," he answered finally with a smile and turned around. While John looked between him and Sherlock with confusion, the man walked to the bingo club entrance, knocking the door lightly. "Ron," the man said, with hint of exasperation in his voice. "If you're done eavesdropping would you kindly let your team know that we have code M and that they should take precautions accordingly?"

"Uh. Sure thing, Harry. But, um, really?" the red-haired man answered through the door, sounding faintly embarrassed.

"Yes. You have thirty seconds. Get to it," Harry said and turned to Sherlock and John, smiling. "You won't be able to solve these murders, Mr. Holmes, or reveal the, hm, perpetrator to the world," he said. "Not in black and white - it will be all painted over and covered up and even if you did find the truth, your brother would only be one in long line of people and measures ready to shut you up."

"Oh?" Sherlock asked, looking intrigued despite himself. "But…?"

"But it is more likely that you will find the truth eventually than the opposite and I might as well make use of that," the bespectacled man mused. "You have some skills my people sorely lack and which at the moment I desperately need."

"Legwork?" Sherlock assumed with a bored expression coming to his face.

"Your type of legwork, yes," Harry agreed with a chuckle, and then pushed the door open. "Let's see about that murder weapon then, shall we?"

"Wait, you're letting us come in?" John asked with surprise.

"Yes," Harry answered calmly, and stepped inside, Sherlock following closely behind and leaving John to trail after them. Harry's three underlings were all there waiting, Weasley frowning slightly at Harry and the two other exchanging confused looks.

"Well then, let's get to it. Lena, if you would be so kind as to get the box from the car so that we can get started?" Harry glanced at the woman who nearly jumped to attention before hurrying out of the hall. Smiling after her, Harry turned to Weasley, holding out his hand. "Gloves?"

"Oh, right, here," Weasley said, and took black leather gloves from his pocket, handing them over to Harry who quickly tugged them to his hands. "You sure about this, Harry? I mean, they are mu - civilians…" the redhead said, glancing at Sherlock and John uneasily.

"I have everything under control, never mind that," Harry answered, folding his fingers and crossing them a couple of times to get the gloves settle. "Let's see where it is then," he murmured, and after a cursory glance around the hall, he made a beeline for the kitchen door - with Sherlock closely behind him and Weasley nearly jogging after them.

"My god, there's two of them," John murmured to himself, and followed, with the confused looking male agent trailing after him.

In the kitchen, Harry looked around for a moment, fiddling the gloves a bit, before starting to open the kitchen cupboards and cabinets, pulling things out and putting them back to their places, muttering "no," and "not this one," and "nope," as he did. He was through half of the cupboards when the female agent came back, dragging with her a metal case that had wheels in the bottom.

"I have it, sir," she said, and after lifting it to the kitchen table, she opened it to reveal empty, cushioned inside.

"Interesting," Sherlock murmured, while the agents exchanged thoughtful looks and followed their boss' process keenly. "Whatever it is, it must be quite dangerous to merit this level of precautions."

"Only if you don't know what you're handling. Mostly it's because we don't want it, whatever it is, breaking before we can get it back with us. They tend to be booby trapped against discovery," Harry answered calmly and let out a satisfied sigh after opening another cupboard, this one filled with tea pots. "There you are," he murmured, and after pushing couple of ceramic pots aside, he carefully pulled a perfectly ordinary looking tin teapot out.

"That's it?" Sherlock asked, while the agents around them turned their attention completely at the teapot, like expecting it to blow up any moment. To John it looked like nothing special, though - it had some engravings on the side and in the metallic lid, but that was about it. And yet _this_, a _teapot_ was what had killed five people?

"This is it," Harry answered, turning the pot carefully in his hands like it was the most precious china. "Completely unremarkable for a murder weapon, isn't it?" he asked with a smile, before carrying the pot to the suitcase, and placing carefully it down.

"I don't believe this," Sherlock muttered with slight disgust. "That can't be it, and you can't possibly know that that is it, just by looking into couple of cupboards. There has to be more than that."

"There is more than that, but the more is exactly why this will never reach the public's eye. Never mind that now, Mr. Holmes," Harry answered, and closed the lid, locking it carefully and then handing the metal case to Weasley. "That is not important. What is important is how did the tea pot end up here?"

Sherlock frowned slightly. "You honestly expect me to believe that the teapot is the murder weapon?"

"What you believe or don't is your problem," the spectacled man answered, tugging the gloves off and handing them to nearby agent. "And not the reason why I permitted you to enter," he added, rubbing his hands together. After being encased in the black leather, his fingers looked nearly white. Actually, John mused with a frown, they _were_ white. It was like the blood had completely drained off them.

Sherlock, judging by his quick glance downwards, noticed it too. He said nothing about it, though. "Well then - why did you permit it?"

"Because I want to hire you to do a task for me," Harry answered. "Find out where the pot came from, how it ended up here."

"That's it?" the detective asked, scowling.

"I know that someone is selling items like these in London. This pot is the third one we've discovered - the two others didn't lead to deaths, but the damage they did was severe in its own right," Harry said, ignoring the alarmed looks his agents were giving him. "I imagine you will find out more than I need you to, Mr. Holmes, if you decide to do it, but if you can find me the person who originally sold the pot, there will be a reward."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment before scowling. "And if I find the real truth behind this all?" he asked.

"Then I suppose you, I and your brother are going to have a very long talk, and after that you will never talk about it again," the wild haired man answered with almost kind smile. "Well then?"

John's flatmate didn't answer immediately; instead he scoffed slightly and turned to walk away. "I'll see you at Baker Street, Mr Potter," he said over his shoulder.

"With results, I presume. I'll look forward to it," Harry answered and turned to look at John, raising his eyebrows while the kitchen door swung shut behind Sherlock.

"Just out of curiosity, how much…?" John trailed away, raising his eyebrows.

"That depends on what Mr Holmes finds out," Harry answered. "But I think Mrs. Hudson won't have to worry about you two not being able to pay rent for a couple of months."

"Okay then," John nodded and after one glance around the kitchen and at the other agents, he hurried after Sherlock. He nearly expected to find the man listening behind the kitchen door, but the man had already gone ahead, the front door of the bingo hall swinging shut after him.

John caught the man on the street, where Sherlock was sneaking a look at the car the agents had came in, and at Harry's motorcycle. Of course - Sherlock couldn't risk eavesdropping when Harry had caught his own underling at it so easily, but he could risk to nose around their transports. Right. "So, now what?" John asked, still trying to piece the conversation together in his head.

"Now we find out where that pot came from," Sherlock said. In John's opinion, he was worryingly excited about the prospect.

"Alright, if you say so," the doctor murmured, sighing and rubbing a hand over his neck. "By the way, what did you mean by _fool me once_?" he asked curiously. "Harry fooled you?"

Sherlock let out a sound that coming from any other person would've been snort. "He tricked me yesterday, made me reveal my hand to him - and he did it with a bold face," he answered, turning to leave. "I won't fall for that trick again. Come on, John. Let's find that attendant, see who bought that pot and where."

xx

So I couldn't come up with that good a mystery but ahh, what the heck. Waiting for Sherlock to figure things out ought to be interesting enough.

Also, this takes place somewhere between Blind Banker and the Great Game. Aside from past Harry x Ginny and mentions of Ron x Hermione, I doubt I will have pairings. Well, some allusions to Sherlock x John maybe, but that's practically canon. If I had pairing for Harry in mind, I'd pair him with Mycroft because I adore that smarmy bastard like whoa, so. Better not.

My apologies for possible grammar errors and such.


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